


Thoughts of You

by glorious_clio



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_clio/pseuds/glorious_clio
Summary: "From the mornings you ease, to the evenings you quiet, to the dreams you inhabit... my thoughts of you never end."Such a gorgeous confession deserves a little more attention.(Slight AU where Daphne agrees not to press Simon to have children.)
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Comments: 28
Kudos: 161





	Thoughts of You

**From the mornings you ease—**

  
  


“Simon...” Daphne cajoled. 

He rolled over, burying his head in the pillows to try and escape her voice. It was far, far too early. The dawn was creeping into their room, promising another bright, hot day, though the room was cool. Fresh air poured in through the open windows. 

“Simon, my love.” Her voice was soft as she called to him. 

He flinched from her hand on his neck, cool in the morning air. “Daphne!” He burrowed further under the blankets. 

“It is time to get up.” She was laughing. “We need to get dressed, the carriage will be ready momentarily.” 

“Blast it, let us stay in bed.” 

“You have stayed abed until the last minute, and besides, I am already out!”

He rolled over, and indeed, she was already about, perched on the edge of the bed and combing her hair into a curl over her fingers. She was wearing a fresh shift and was evidently awaiting assistance with her stays. 

“Besides, should we not set an example for the community?”

He clamped his eyes again. “Perhaps, but I should hate for you to catch a chill this morning.”

“Simon, it is August. I promise I know how to dress warmly, even if it was not.” 

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips, but before he could wrap his arms around her, she slid away. “Come. Get up, dear. It is time to go to church.”

“Very well. But it is a day of rest. Afterwards, we nap.” He eased himself out of bed, stretching, enjoying her eyes on his skin entirely bare for her benefit. 

“Hmmmm, yes. Nap.”

They laughed, and after pulling on a pair of clean trousers, he helped her with her stays. 

  
  
  
  
  


  
**—to the evenings you quiet—**

He does not need to help with the harvests, indeed, what Duke would? But the weather has been so poor that when the sun does shine, the farmers need all the help they can get. 

Simon Basset was exhausted. He considered himself in shape, but he was unused to harvesting hay, harvesting _anything_ really. He had been given simple tasks today, but they had worked from dawn until dusk, and if the weather held, he would be back at it tomorrow. It is after dark by the time Simon returns home to Clyvedon House, allowing the stableboys to brush down and feed and water his horse. 

He trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, seeking rest, and only rest. 

“Oh good, you are home,” Daphne said as he opened the door. 

He took in the tableau: the fire was lit, though the night was warm, and their tub was filled with steaming water. She was in a linen dress with an old apron. Her hair was tied back simply, and her cheeks were bright as if she had helped the maids heat and carry the water. Perhaps she had been. 

“I thought this might be welcome?” 

He smiled softly as he crossed the room, and when he came to her, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. 

She lifted his sweaty shirt off of him, and then knelt to the boots. He stepped out of them, and she went to the door to place them outside for the valet to clean for tomorrow. 

Turning, she wiped the mud from her hands. He was already naked and easing into the tub. The hot water was more welcome than he could say. 

“Daphne,” he said, reaching a hand out to her. 

She brought a stool and sat next to him as he soaked. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty, perhaps?” she asked. 

He cupped a hand around her cheek. “I am well. We ate a bit in the fields. Exhausted, but well.”

She kissed his thumb, understanding him perfectly and allowing the quiet of the evening to steal over them both.

**—to the dreams you inhabit—**

It is a bright spring day, the wind blows in through their curtains, pushing them around like a bully. The bells of the church are ringing, the birds are singing, and Simon and Daphne are tucked up in their marriage bed. 

He is holding her in his arms, she is wound around him so tightly that he does not truly know where he ends and she begins. Waves of pleasure roll through him as he tries to kiss her again. 

It is difficult, as she is all smiles, and he does not wish to kiss her teeth. But he has never truly seen her this happy. She is absolutely _radiant_. His hands run down her sides, to her full breasts. To her fuller belly, rounding into his hands. 

“Simon, he loves you, I know it.”

“I love him. I love you,” he says, claiming her mouth again. They are so warm, but their passions stoke even hotter—

Simon woke with a start, breathing heavily. He sat up, and the immediacy of the dream faded into the dark room, lit only by the dying fire. A wintery wind rattled the windows, the curtains were drawn tightly against the frosty night.

Daphne was apparently undisturbed by Simon jolting himself awake. Her menses always made her tired. She could sleep through the second coming, this week of every month. Relief flooded him. She was _not_ with child, they were _not_ trying to get her with child. Not yet, not ever. 

He pushed himself out of bed, trying to leave the dream on his pillow. Pulling on his robe, Simon went to the fire, stoking the coals and adding another log to the fire. He watched while it caught, it burned brightly, hotly, as he considered. Tried not to consider. 

“Simon?” 

He turned to the bed. She sat up. He loved her so much, from the braid of hair down to the tips of her toes. Her face was not radiant now: it was concerned, with maybe a little bit of sleep around the edges. 

“Are you cold, my dear?” she asked. 

He came back to bed. She pulled him into her arms. 

“A nightmare?”

“Not... not exactly.”

She hummed, nuzzled up closer. “My love,” she sighed. She pushed his robe open and buried her face into his neck. Her nose was cold against his skin. “You will only have nice dreams for the rest of the night,” she made a promise she could not possibly keep, could not possibly control. 

He took the blessing. 

Simon could no longer see her expression, but he had seen her asleep now, every night, every morning. The slackness of her jaw, the relaxing of her features. He loved every expression on her face. From that first clash in the ballroom, to the confusion when she doubted him (that he strived to remedy every day of their marriage). To the concentration that crossed her face as they chased their pleasure. All of those realities were better than the dream he had woken from. 

But. If he was honest... and since she was not demanding conversation from him at the moment... maybe he already missed the radiance. Maybe in his heart of hearts, he would welcome the spring. 

He dragged his hands down her torso, and wrapped his arms around the small of her back, her flat stomach nearly flush against his. He let himself think of the dream, let himself hope for sweeter ones. 

  
  
  


**—my thoughts of you never end.”**


End file.
